


Rightwise Born

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Camelot, Canon Era, Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Dialogue Heavy, Dragonlord Merlin (Merlin), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e12-13 The Sword in the Stone, Gen, Hugs, King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Light Angst, Magic, Merlin Needs a Hug (Merlin), Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Missing Scene, One Shot, POV Merlin (Merlin), References to Canon, Shippy Gen, Some Humor, Wine, written while maintaining direct eye contact with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: I just finished a rewatch of s4, and I have alotof feelings, chief among them being that if Arthur's claiming of Excalibur, return to Camelot, and marriage to Gwen are to inaugurate Albion's golden age, this is how it should begin.This fic features conversation in which Arthur exhibits canon-typical levels of misogyny and tendencies to needle Merlin, while Merlin exhibits canon-typical levels of exhaustion and anxiety. But also, I wanted to highlight Arthur's commitment to royal administration, which we see more inconsistently. I hypothesize a golden age in which Arthur Pendragon is capable of being sincere about his own emotions for longer than 0.5 seconds. Is this self-indulgent? probably. Enjoy!
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 210





	Rightwise Born

Merlin is standing halfway between the wardrobe and the table, and trying not to look as though he is thinking of his bed, and trying not to sway on his feet. He can feel the pressure of anticipation in his bones. The next day’s wedding feels like a defiance, as well as a triumph: _see, this is what we have achieved. See, this is the king that Camelot has. See, this is the beginning of a new age._

Arthur, despite having bathed, has wandered back to his work table. He writes in fits and starts, careless strokes and abbreviations followed by periods where the nib of his pen hovers irresolutely over the parchment. Merlin sighs. He’ll have to get ink out of the king’s shirt — and, if he’s anything like this nervous tomorrow morning, ink out from under his fingernails for him. 

“It’s made from shellfish,” says Arthur shortly.

“What?”

“Snails, to be precise.” When Merlin does not respond, Arthur looks up, his brow furrowed in the way that says Merlin is missing something obvious. “The shirt,” he says. “The dye for your shirt.”

Merlin knows full well that the dye for his shirt is made from madder root, and that the plants themselves are used for bedstraw. He is about to say as much when Arthur jerks his head sideways, towards the screen. 

“Oh,” says Merlin. Obeying the unspoken request, he goes over to it, taking a fold of the cloth between his fingers. _Shirt_ is an inadequate word, he thinks. It is a tunic, generously cut and finely woven, as well as evenly dyed with that astonishing purple. _Snails._

“Is your mother well?” asks Arthur.

Merlin indulges in a jaw-cracking yawn; he is definitely too tired for whatever conversation Arthur is trying to have. “Yes,” he says. He fails to stifle a second yawn as he turns back to face the king, and catches Arthur’s frown in response.

“You’ve received word?” continues Arthur. “She is unharmed? The village is…”

“She wrote,” says Merlin. “Minimal damage. Lost a load of hay and a couple of pigs.” _And only the pigs were the soldiers’ fault._ “Ealdor sends its collective good wishes, by the way, along with a complaint about being robbed of its blacksmith.”

“Do you come from a village where _everyone_ is naturally insolent, Merlin?”

“Obviously, sire.” 

“Hm.” Arthur’s expression relaxes briefly, but then his attention returns to his parchment, and he strikes out a line of text with a particularly savage stroke. Merlin is on the point of saying _Oh, just let me do it_ when he realizes that it is probably something for Gwen. 

“Sit down before you fall down, Merlin.” Despite the disapproval in Arthur’s tone, he is too tired not to obey.

“How did your mother learn to write?” asks Arthur abruptly.

“Um,” says Merlin, wrong-footed, “my father.” Too late he realizes that he should have lied and said: _Gaius._

“Hm,” says Arthur again. “Your father was a noble?”

Merlin swallows hard. “Sort of,” he says. When the quality of the silence suggests that Arthur will not be satisfied with this, he adds: “It’s complicated.” 

“It’s not like you to be secretive, Merlin.”

He has drawn breath before he remembers that he cannot, he must not laugh. “No, sire.” Mercifully, Arthur leaves it at that. His pen scratches over the parchment, and the fire crackles in the grate. Merlin half-dozes in his chair. He hears the echoes of another man’s voice: _You’ve been at court all this time — at Arthur’s side. How you’ve managed to deceive him._ All this time…

“Merlin.” He starts fully awake, resists the temptation to rub at the knot below his left shoulder-blade. “When you’ve stopped drooling, I have an important question for you. Pour yourself some wine,” adds Arthur, as Merlin blinks.

“Did you mean what you said in the forest?” asks Arthur.

“Every word. I don’t know which bit you’re talking about, but every word.”

“When I said that we had nothing to put against Morgana’s powers, you answered me with nothing but your… your blinding faith. Your answer to dark magic was to say that you believed in me.”

“Yes.” Merlin’s mouth has gone dry. “You’re always telling me I’m an idiot,” he offers.

Arthur half-chuckles. “True.” He makes a series of strokes that Merlin recognizes as the A in a decisive _Artorius_ ; he’s finished the speech, then. “Read that over,” says Arthur.

Merlin takes a deep breath. “Arthur, if it’s for Gwen, I…”

“It’s not for Gwen.” Arthur is still holding out the parchment for his inspection; Merlin notes that his hand is surprisingly steady. Not even when he takes it does Arthur’s expression change.

Three lines in, Merlin is worried. Six lines in, he is terrified. Nine lines in, he puts down the parchment and picks up his goblet of wine. 

“ _Well_ , Merlin?”

“Not finished yet,” says Merlin hoarsely. When he lets out a breath, he can hear it shaking in the silence. 

“You think it’s reckless.”

“No!” Merlin nearly knocks over the wine in the vehemence of his denial. “No, I don’t, I — I think it’s brilliant.” He grins. “I think you’re brilliant.”

“Steady on, Merlin.”

“It’s right,” stammers Merlin. “It’s good. And Gaius — it’s right that Gaius should be the one to oversee it, that’s… It’s what he deserves.”

“He deserves far more than that,” says Arthur somberly. “I meant what I said too, Merlin. I’ve trusted the wrong people. I’ve mistrusted the wrong people. And Camelot has suffered for it.” Merlin waits. He cannot deny it. And the messy lines on the parchment still swim before his eyes. _Forasmuch as the kingdom has been wounded by the enmity of magic-users, and attacked by enemies against whom we have no sure defense…_ “Morgana,” says Arthur, and Merlin snaps to attention. “She said that I had made it clear how I felt about her kind.” Arthur’s mouth twists, as though the phrase leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “And that I wasn’t as different from my father — our father — as I might like to think.”

Merlin closes his eyes. “She meant to hurt you.”

Arthur laughs bitterly. “Yes, well. She might have had a point. And when I pulled the sword from the stone…”

Merlin grips the edge of the table, wills his vision to stop swimming. “Yes?”

“It didn’t work,” says Arthur, “until I held it like a tool. Not… not simply as a thing of magic, unknown and unwieldy, but as a weapon that would come familiar to my hand.”

“Yes,” says Merlin, a little breathlessly.

“Swords don’t just come out of stones, Merlin.”

“Not… usually,” says Merlin weakly. “That is rather the point.”

“Merlin,” says Arthur, in a tone that makes him sit up straight. “I am not quite as stupid as I look.”

“Sire?”

“Oh, shut it,” says Arthur irritably, and pours them both more wine. “I meant what I said as well.” Merlin sits very still, and waits for an explanation. “You are my best, perhaps my only friend, and I could not bear to lose you. You are absolutely stupidly loyal. You are also idiotically brave — taking on an entire army in a series of underground tunnels is but the latest example — and on occasion, astonishingly wise.”

“I’m glad there are insults in there,” says Merlin. “Wouldn’t know what to do with myself otherwise. Might send for Gaius to have your head examined.”

“I have not forgotten,” says Arthur, “that you managed single-handedly to both save and preserve my life when my kingdom was overrun.” He is grave and golden and kingly, even clad in his shirt and breeks, even with ink on his fingers, and Merlin is horribly afraid that he is going to cry.

“I can’t knight you,” says Arthur. “I’d lose my manservant. But if that’s… if that’s what you want…”

“Oh no,” says Merlin hastily. “No, absolutely not; I’d be rubbish at it.”

“I can’t bestow degrees of nobility; you’d spill your wine over some elderly earl at the next feast.”

“On purpose!” suggests Merlin happily. 

“Merlin,” says Arthur, and suddenly Merlin knows that he has not avoided this conversation after all. “Reports have come in,” says Arthur, “of a dragon.”

“Mm,” manages Merlin. He hopes it doesn’t sound like a whimper.

“It appeared over Ealdor,” continues Arthur, “and proceeded to… the term here is _crisp_ ; I think it must have been taken down verbatim… an army of Southrons.” Merlin tries to look interested rather than guilty. “Merlin,” says Arthur, “you were with me when we fought the Great Dragon.”

“Yes,” says Merlin faintly.

“The last dragon. The dragon that you informed me that I had killed, when I regained consciousness on the field of battle.”

“Er, yes.”

“Merlin,” says Arthur, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, “take a drink of wine, and then take a deep breath before you faint. Like a girl,” he adds, and Merlin, holding the goblet in both hands, manages a smile. “That’s better. _Now_ give me your explanation.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. There are so many ways he could explain. So many different things with which he could begin. At this moment of crisis, he is not even sure what the central fact is, the thing that, before all others, he must tell his king. He could conjure the flames into fantastic shapes. He could explain that his is the magic not only of fire, but of sky and water and the earth itself. He could obey the order as directly as possible: _Yes, sire; I am the last of the Dragonlords, and hold power over their kind. The Great Dragon’s name is Kilgharrah. Also there’s another one._ But that would require going back to _releasing_ the dragon, and that would require going back to the fact that he could speak to them, and that would require talking about Uther, and that would require…

“Merlin,” says Arthur, “Merlin.”

Merlin blinks, and finds himself looking up into Arthur’s face; the king has placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, sire,” he whispers. Arthur opens his mouth as if to speak, but Merlin presses onwards. “Sire,” he says, and then, desperately, “Arthur, do you remember that thing you said just now about my being impossibly loyal?”

“Stupidly loyal,” corrects Arthur. There is a quirk at the corner of his mouth, and Merlin thinks that, maybe, they might both survive this.

“I am,” says Merlin, and Arthur’s face softens into near-laughter. “I mean…” He swallows. Uneasy is the memory of his own ruthlessness: of an army burned alive, of an army crushed underground, men thrown to the side like dolls, a doll under Morgana’s bed. 

Limbs ungainly with weariness, Merlin scrambles out of his chair, and throws himself to his knees at Arthur’s feet. “My magic and my service are yours,” he says, and hears Arthur’s sharply indrawn breath. 

“Say that again.” It is a king’s command.

“My…” He takes a deep breath. He does not want his voice to shake. “My magic and my service are yours. I didn’t,” he adds more softly, “I didn’t learn magic. I _have_ learned magic, but… I didn’t choose it. I was born with it. My mother and the dragon agree.”

“Gods above,” says Arthur softly. “Is there… is there anything else I should know?”

Merlin looks up, and meets Arthur’s eyes. He is solemn and distant, ready to pronounce judgment. Merlin decides to tell the truth. “My lord king,” he says, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Does it begin with the Dragonlord?”

Merlin braces himself with a hand against the floor. “Before that, sire.”

“The… the Knights of Medhir?”

“Before that.”

“I…” says Arthur, and stops. “It’s not possible. _Aredian?_ ”

“Before that, sire,” says Merlin miserably.

“Merlin.”

“Arthur,” says Merlin desperately, “you’re getting _married_ tomorrow, can’t we just… postpone this?”

“The king’s judgment will not be delayed at your pleasure, Merlin.” It is a fearsome warning, but Arthur’s tone is oddly familiar, oddly close to teasing. Merlin does not quite dare look at his face. “Merlin,” says Arthur, “answer me this: did it begin in the caves of Balor? When you were… after you had drunk poison? Did you do it because you knew you’d survive?”

“I didn’t know I’d survive,” says Merlin flatly, “and before that I brought a dog to life from stone and defeated a vengeful sorceress. Those were separate occasions.”

Arthur groans, and when Merlin looks up, he has pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Merlin,” says Arthur.

“Sire?”

“ _Merlin_ ,” says Arthur, “if you call me _sire_ one more time I’m going to put you on bread and water for the week following the feast.”

“Sorry, my… Arthur.” He suspects that _my lord_ wouldn’t have been much better.

“I haven’t heard the half of it yet, have I?”

“I… no?”

“Why?” The question is genuine, almost anguished. “And for goodness’ sake, get up off the floor before you freeze there.” He reaches out, and hauls roughly up on Merlin’s elbow. Merlin cries out, and stumbles, and finds himself swaying, held upright by Arthur’s grip on his upper arms. He thinks vaguely that it should feel more like imprisonment, and less like comfort.

“I didn’t want you to abolish magic for me,” says Merlin. “Not just for me. And when you… after Uther died, you…”

“I was wrong,” says Arthur, and Merlin blinks at him in shock. He must confess his part in that, too; his and Morgana’s, but that is a tale for another night. “You kept breaking the law,” says Arthur softly.

“My existence breaks the law.”

“Your…” Arthur takes a deep breath. “Yes, all right. But you… you didn’t have to…”

“But I did,” says Merlin, and he smiles. “I did. You’d never turn back from a battle, not even against overwhelming odds, not if it were in the cause of right. Into the mouth of hell,” says Merlin, and wins a fleeting smile from Arthur in return. “And besides, it…”

“What?” demands Arthur, too quickly. “What? You aren’t even _from_ Camelot, and my father — may he lie in peace — always did hate you, and…”

“You,” says Merlin, too tired to dissemble. “For you. The dragon says it’s destiny. So does Gaius, and I’m more inclined to trust him, honestly. But even if they didn’t… even without the prophecy, which is something I’ll explain later… I don’t think I could stop. I can’t imagine letting harm come to you, or letting anything come between you and your future as Camelot’s king. Even when you’re being a prat,” adds Merlin, and finds himself caught up in an embrace.

“ _Merlin_ ,” breathes Arthur, not quite against his ear. “Merlin, you… you dollophead.”

“My word,” says Merlin, without heat. Whatever happens next, he has this. He has Arthur’s arms around him, and he will allow it to feel like forgiveness.

“A wonder,” says Arthur, a little thickly. “You are a wonder, Merlin.”

“Please,” says Merlin. He can feel himself starting to shake. “Don’t let this change anything. You will repeal the ban on magic and…” His voice sticks in his throat.

“Of course I’m going to repeal the ban on magic, idiot,” says Arthur. “It was my idea.” Merlin chokes back a sob. “And of course things are going to change,” says Arthur softly. Merlin goes very still. “I gather that you’re a very powerful sorcerer. Having you polish my armor seems a waste of your talents, wouldn’t you agree?”

Merlin pulls back and looks at Arthur, stunned. “We can talk about it later,” says the king. “But tomorrow… tomorrow is the beginning of something. And I didn’t want to begin it without you.”

“My lord,” manages Merlin. He half-falls back into Arthur’s arms. “My lord, my lord…”

“Shut up, Merlin,” says Arthur, “or I’ll make you wear a silly hat.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Rightwise born," of course, comes from Malory's inscription on the sword in the stone. And in the world of the show, if Arthur is rightwise born king of Albion, so is Merlin rightwise born to be the sorcerer at his side.
> 
> Latin is the language of diplomacy in this fic because I am 900% sure that I know more about medieval documentary culture than the show-writers. Gaius oversees the legal and social logistics of repealing the ban on magic because 1) he's the most qualified person in Camelot to do it 2) it's what he deserves and I will accept nothing less for him.


End file.
